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Published: January 30th 2010
Whoops!
I'm pretty sure I did something wrong to make this happen.What Am I? Un-Australian?
I used to keep a small notebook in my backpack, between my “interesting” Greek playing cards and my current novel, where I would write down the names of every interesting person I met while travelling. This started out as a practicality, as I am downright awful at remembering names. Seriously, if I don’t write down your name the instant you tell it to me, and sometimes even if I do, the syllables will simply bounce across the empty space that I’m certain lines my skull until they eventually fall out the other side. I think the real reason for this is that I’m far more interested in knowing something about you - where you’re from, what you do for fun, which common household smell most reminds you of Bangkok - than I ever am in your name. After all, a name doesn’t tell you squat about a person. At the very most, it only tells you about their parents. Thus, in the instant that you are so politely obliging me with an answer to the obligatory name question I felt bound to ask you, my mind is already racing off down the street of other, more
The Beach in Question
Not a bad place to learn to surf I suppose. Shame the weather was so awful. pressing questions that I’m going to ask you next.
Some people view this as the height of rudeness, and they are probably quite right to do so, so I’m sorry that I’m such a forgetful sod, but honestly, if we’re still friends tomorrow I’ll ask you your name again and get you to write it in my notebook.
However, I’ve diverged from my real point here, which has nothing whatsoever to do with what I just wrote. If I were to look back on that list today, which I do every now and then, I can remember the first time I met all of those people. Quite literally hundreds and hundreds of them, from all corners of the globe, from the expected countries like Australia and England, to the exotic such as the pair from Mauritius or two Icelandic girls, all of whom are unique and different, and yet in almost ever case I had almost the same first conversation with all of them: where are you from? Where are you travelling to? Which part of Australia are you from? Do you surf?
That’s right. Almost every person I met asked me if I surfed, as if
Ready to Go
Tools of the trade. that was something that Australians could do from birth (to clarify things for all foreigners: no, we do not know how to surf at birth, but yes, we can wrestle crocodiles at that point). The sad part of this, however, was that I had not, at any point in my life, ever been surfing. Hundreds of disappointed or confused faces flood my memories, from each and every time that I had to explain that where I come from there hasn’t ever been a wave even remotely surfable, even if you braved the deadly jellyfish. It became almost heartbreaking to repeatedly explain this concept to people around the world, and it made me feel distinctly un-Australian.
So, there was only one thing for it. Jeff and I set our sights on becoming real Aussie men, and we went to the beach.
A Poorly Made Plan Actually Bears Fruit for a Change
The north coast of New South Wales is renowned for its beaches. A fact which is equal parts great - for there are more amazing beaches to choose from than anywhere else - and horrible - for it is very hard to choose which beach to go
Let's Dance
Holding onto my balance for dear life. to out of all the options. However, as Jeff and I had all the time in the world, we simply decided to go to every single beach that we came across. That really took a lot of pressure out of the whole situation. Our first destination, where we came back to the coast late that evening, was the small beachside town of Crescent Head.
Driving into the town, we passed through your typical eastern Australian bush, which was looking remarkably lush for a change. It is rather an odd feeling, but I always seem to sense when I’m driving down a road towards a beach. Something about that last 30km stretch of road feels different, similar to the last stretch of a long drive home. Fairly quickly we arrived at the town, a small collection of summer homes and small apartments for rent stretched along the one main road, with a camping ground at the very end taking up the prime, beach-side real estate. First stop was the beach, as we surveyed our find. Stretching away from us, the beach made it abundantly clear where it got its name from; the perfectly even crescent curving off into the fading
Is It Long Enough
In case we wanted to spread out, Australia had provided us with more than enough beach. distance as one constant strip of white sand. Not just any old white sand either; this was the kind of beach that Australia is justifiably famous for.
The challenge however would be to find an appropriate place to stay, as being the flippant men that we are, Jeff and I hadn’t planned anything at all in advance. We figured we’d just show up somewhere and everything would sort itself out (in my experience, everything always does sort itself out, one way or another, you just need to be open minded enough to accept the results whatever they may be). We looked around, asking in at the camp site which had closed up shop for the evening, until we came across a small apartment that had an advertised vacancy. When the owner came out to meet us she didn’t jump on the opportunity of two out-of-towners who didn’t know any better, like many others would, and almost immediately after she had told us the price of her own rooms she asked us if we’d prefer to stay at the significantly cheaper hostel down the road. I was shocked. No rip-offs or bartering here, just good old honest people who won’t
Rocks and a Rip
The riptide ran out from the beach among these rocks. It was great for getting out there, particularly to a rock around the corner that we did some high-diving from, however, getting back to shore was a lot harder than I would have liked, so, rather than paddling, I simply surfed in. Just kidding, I tried and failed to surf back in. steer you the wrong way. Thanking her for the tip, we headed back out in the car, down a small road skirting behind the beach and eventually behind a mangrove forest.
The hostel wasn’t quite what I was expecting. To start with, it was, to be blatant, in the middle of nowhere. All by itself out in the forest, it looked for all intents and purposes exactly like I would have expected a hippie commune to look. Except, instead of hippies, it was filled with old surfers, who may or may not have been hippies at some point (sometimes it is hard to tell, as the two categories overlap a lot. I’m pretty sure that if an Australian hippy could figure out how to surf whilst high and wearing hemp trousers then they would be doing just that). Three old surfers were playing old surfer-rock music in the communal room, band practice slash free concert for the tourists as we later discovered, the owner was a laid back surfer who looked like he was living out the life of that bumper sticker “I’d rather be surfing”, and the only reading materials I could find were surf magazines. Clearly this
Surfari
When in Australia, do a Surfari. They are fun! hostel had one intention, and that suited us very nicely.
The best part of the deal, however, was the daytime programme. For $95, we were informed, we would be provided with a bed for the evening, three square meals, and a full day of surf lessons including gear. You really can’t beat that now can you? It looked as though we would be becoming properly Australian after all.
That night we met up with the other tourists who were staying at the hostel. They had all come as a part of a weeklong surfing adventure, or a “Surfari” that was travelling up the coast, stopping at a few different beaches. Without exception, they had all been at Crescent Head for several days, so clearly Jeff and I would have to step up our game so as to not look foolish in front of them. That night, during an unplanned midnight swim, I had to explain for the very last time why I had never, ever surfed before. And given where I was, and how close it really is to where I grew up, for the first time I realised just how awful it was to have gone 25
A Good Place to Start
Wading out into the water, getting ready to surf, fearing for my life (not really) and generally having an awesome time. years without.
Oh That’s Right, I’m a Terrible Swimmer!
The morning of our lesson arrived and I dragged myself out of my bed (not difficult considering my excitement, the mosquitoes and the glorious warmth of summer), into the shower and down to breakfast. Jai, the token young surf instructor who couldn’t have looked any more like a stereotypical surfer (think of a character from any old surfing movie you’ve ever seen, and then add a measure of bogan), was busy preparing breakfast and lunch for the whole group in the communal room out the back but I simply bypassed him for the Weet-bix. After all, no self-respecting Aussie can ever achieve anything without twelve or twenty Weet-bix in his stomach. Slowly the others emerged from their hangovers and the room filled with about fifteen would be surfers.
After breakfast we all piled into a bus and a four wheel drive and pretty soon we were cruising down the road - the bus going slowly under the guidance of one of the post-retirement surfies, the 4x4 going hell-for-leather thanks to Jai’s manic streak. Due to some conspiracy involving winds, headlands and handwaving by our guides we ended
Step One
Wave caught. That's the first step to surfing, right? Now, to figure out how to stand up on something that isn't really solid. . . up driving quite a ways from Crescent Head before settling on a secluded beach. For all I could tell however, the decision very well could have been made on the basis of “oh, there are other people surfing here already, must be good” rather than any actual logic. This was fine by me though, as each and every beach we saw was nothing but white sand stretching into the distance. The supposed advantages of this one being a larger than average audience to laugh at me, and a healthy riptide.
Hang on, a riptide? Everything I’d ever learned about the beach growing up was that you had to avoid rips, swim between the flags, and not die. It was a fairly straightforward formula I thought, although today was apparently an exception as we aimed straight for the rip which was running out from the beach over a series of jagged rocks. Now, I’m not one to be deterred by danger or a challenge, but I must admit that I didn’t feel very comfortable on my first venture out in that rip.
As I mentioned before, Jeff and I were the only newcomers to surfing on that day. Everyone
Hang On, We Should Think This Through
Seriously, this can't be my fault! Look, he's coming right at me! else had been taught a couple of days earlier so they all raced out in their wetsuits (after either applying a liberal amount of suncream if they were sane, or none at all if they were the typical pasty-white, insane British type) leaving Jeff and I alone for our lesson. Jai was given the task of teaching us, so we got our boards, lay down on the sand and prepared for the long and arduous task, full of memorization, repeated practice of elementary moves, and dumbfounded nodding of fake understanding, that was inevitably going to be required in order for my sorry self to be able to surf.
Surprisingly, within ten minutes, maybe even less, I was wading out into the water knowing everything about surfing that I now know. This was comforting at the time, as it made me think that surfing can’t be that difficult after all if it can be taught in ten minutes. Within another ten minutes though, I had reconsidered, revised, and completely turned that opinion around. Surfing is hard!
I spent the next few hours constantly pushing myself out into the breaking waves, waiting for a substantial wave to arrive, paddling frantically
And, The Result
Are you alright mate? No? Bugger. . . well, it was your fault, see ya! while seemingly never moving anywhere, occasionally getting caught in a wave and then spasmodically attempting to stand up. I would say that the tasks of getting out to the waves, catching a wave, keeping the board straight in the wave, avoiding nose diving (which is the most disappointing failure mode), moving from a lying position into a standing one, and balancing whilst up there, are not hard tasks at all. None of these things is difficult in its own right. Doing them all in a row on the same wave however? Now that is almost impossible, as everything happens so quickly. Unlike snowboarding, where falling over isn’t the end of the world because you can simply stand back up again and get on with it (or as some friends of mine do it, you can just roll out of control until you miraculously recover your balance while facing the right way up), when you bugger up something in surfing you lose that wave and have to start from the beginning again. Time after time I found myself underwater, turning this way and that with my hands on my head praying that my board had flung far, far away during my
What? Am I Actually Surfing?
Sure, the wave is long gone, but I've now progressed to the point of being able to stand. Count that as a point for the good guys. aquatic somersaults, with the realisation that I now had to get myself all the way back out there again if I wanted another crack at it.
Yet, despite the obvious level of futility, I would always spring back to the surface, collect my board, turn around and charge headfirst back into the waves (for I had given up on paddling out in the rip as it just didn’t seem worth the effort if I could simply walk my way out). For the second time on this trip I had found something that was exciting, thrilling even, to the point where I could ignore all practicalities and keep throwing myself at it. I suppose I’m stubborn.
By now I will assume that you’ve looked through the collection of hilarious photos Jeff was so kind to take of me while I was out in the waves. Let me assure you that those waves look a whole lot bigger when your standing in the water facing them, and if they had been any bigger then I likely would have ended up in a much more painful state than I did. Also, let me inform you that I really did manage to
Getting the Hang of Things
Sure, I don't quite look professional yet, but that is most definitely me riding a wave. catch a few of them, and stand up on the board, and twice I even managed to do both activities on the same wave. For a brief second or two I was there, standing on a surfboard, riding a wave in to shore, and it felt great. Despite the fact that I was constantly worried about being carried off in that rip, which turned out to be so weak that a four-year old ought not fear it, I was actually having fun, so I kept at it for hour after hour. Long after most of the others had given up for the day I was still out there trying my hardest to catch that one, long, perfect wave where everything would work, and I would casually cruise in to shore looking like the beach combing Aussie that I wish to be.
That, of course, did not quite happen. So I guess I’ll have to try surfing again sometime.
So now I can truthfully turn to a random stranger, with a name that I’ve only just forgotten, and I can look them in the eye when they ask me that inevitable question. Then, instead of a longwinded explanation of
Maybe I Should Have Waited. . .
A wave doing what it wasn't supposed to. Don't break yet damn it! the impracticalities of surfing within a day’s drive of my hometown, I can say to them “Oh yeah, I surf mate, doesn’t everyone?” Throw in a shark reference or two, my story about being stung by a jellyfish in Tigershark Alley perhaps, and I figure I can convince anyone that I’m an Aussie. Just one with a really bad accent, that’s all.
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